Archives for February 2016

A local yoga shop opened up and offered a Groupon for a juice cleanse—$99 for three days. I’m a sucker for deals. I have been developing the floppy man tits and abs of Meatloaf, so I decided to give it a try.

Now, if you’re like me, you’ve tried all sorts of short-term fixes. Most of those include excluding things. We cut out caffeine, sugar, alcohol, red meat, gluten, salt, chips, and so on. Sure, we lose a few pounds, but at what cost?

It’s day three and I’m fucking HANGRY!

Oh, and I’m shitting purple. That could have sent me in a panicked sprint to the ER, but I kind of expect it from all the beet juice I’ve been forcing down. Also, although I feel full, I crave an entire Papa John’s pizza dunked in garlic butter.

On a positive note, when I arrive at the yoga studio, I notice quite a flock of fit ladies. Hmm, am I a silver fox in the hen pen? Yep. Most of the yoga peeps are sans makeup with “up” hair and dirty feet. Fine enough for this lawn-drinking dummy. Yet, these peeps seem all business. I get the feeling any proposition would be met with silence and stink faces. I resist the urge to bang ole stinky feet.

I arrived this morning to get my juice. The sweet yogi behind juice bar asks pleasantly, “How’s it going?”

“Um, fine,” I answer, which is a fucking lie. Why do I do this? She would prefer an honest answer, right? Am I worried about offending her? Somewhat. So, why can’t I deliver the bad news in a kind fashion?

“I’m glad you asked, my dear. First, let me say I really love what you’ve done with the place. Great deal, that Groupon thing, too. Very generous of you. I appreciate it. Wow, so many lovely, healthy people. I’m so inspired.”

“Thank you. Are you enjoying the juice cleanse?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m enjoying it—not in the way, say, one enjoys a tender filet with caramelized onions. Let’s say, I’m tolerating it because I know it’s a small sacrifice to reboot my body and soul.”

“Oh, no. You don’t like it? I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, sweetie. It’s fine. I’m sure this is doing wonders for my oft-abused innards. The new, radiant me will come bouncing into here again in no time. Heck, I may even sign up for yoga classes.”

“Excellent. Well, you let me know. We have classes every day.”

“Thank you. Want to have sex with me?”

“What did you say?”

“I want to be flexible.”

“Oh. Sorry. I misheard you. Good. Yoga will help. Well, have a great day.”

“You too.”

I’m going to return home, toss these juice bottles, and make a high gluten/salt/fat/sugar omelet. Fuck cleanses.

Straight men rarely evaluate their targets based on how fashion appropriate they are. We are more concerned with the contents than the cover. I’m not saying women aren’t interested in what lies beneath, but they certainly give more weight to what he’s wearing.

This causes me problems. The more I realize how I’m being evaluated, the darker and more loose-fitting my clothes become. As I sit on the weight bench trying to do one more set, I wonder why I need biceps when they’ll be covered in black fabric.

Women are crafty about how they provide guidance. The one I sat next to last night pointed toward brother man-beast (whom I thought was a fit and attractive young fella) and gave me her take.

“His hat is too large. It gives him a pinhead look. He should shave that awful mustache. And, please, don’t ever go out wearing a T-shirt. That’s just inappropriate.”

“Huh? We’re at a casual cantina.”

“So? Are you under 30?”

“Um, no. Been thirty almost twice.”

“Then you need to stick to polos.”

“What? I wear black T-shirts all the time.”

“Yeah, and you’re single, aren’t you?”

“Yes, at this moment I happen to be single. You’re claiming it’s due to my donning the blackness?”

“Twofold. I’m saying it’s one reason, and if you had a girlfriend, she wouldn’t let you go out wearing a T-shirt. They’re meant to be undershirts, unless you’re twenty and time-traveling back to the sixties.”

“Jesus Christ. Anything else?”

“Stand up and pirouette.”

“Fine.”

I did, well aware that if I had asked her to stand and spin, I would have been slapped, then brained by a bouncer. She complimented the rest of my outfit by describing it as “fine.” I realized that word was used in the sense of “acceptable” not “exceptional.” I took it graciously, anyway.

As we fast-forward this story, does it end with me banging the pretentiousness out of her? No. Indeed, I considered how rewarding it would be to make her wear my Ozzy T-shirt while ramming her raw.

Then, it hit me.

Do women diss men out of a desire to be fucked angrily? Has she heard enough mushy slop from her previous lover? Does she want her hair pulled, neck bitten, and ass smacked? Does she want me whispering from behind how I’m going to fuck her so hard she’ll need to sit on an inner tube for a week?

You want kids? Want to travel? How much? You like foot rubs? Rough sex? Earlobe biting? Neck kissing? How about linguini with clam sauce?

As I age like fine Parmesan, my priorities change. Yours too? Here’s a biggie: sleep! That sets up my entire day. If I sleep like shit, I’m in a haze the entire next day. I see people wearing earplugs and blindfolds. I hear white noise generators (a true indication that it is her last date with me). I’m buried in pillows, blankets, and (dis)comforters. She wears a one-sy with socks. She sleeps naked. All sorts. Find one that matches yours, and you’ve got a keeper.

What about life values? Some people want to be wealthy more than they want to be happy. They’ll do what it takes to get more and pay less. That’s stressful. I dated a woman who wanted to review my finances before proceeding (read: allow me to enter her). She was well-off. Good for her. Was she worried my broke ass was trying to marry her and take half? That’s fucked up. I grabbed her tits, kissed her goodbye, went home, and had sex with myself. My cock doesn’t care about my FICO score.

Pets are important to me. Therefore, her pet’s compatibility with mine matter. When I run into ex-bedmates, I’m often asked, “How are your cats? Do you have like fifty now?” Those times, I often wish I held a kick-a-wiseass-in-the-cunt card. Can’t find one, so I give a fake chuckle then sneeze on her.

I also dated a woman who owned a horse-sized dog. She came right out and told me her dog would eat my cats. I was three months from my last penetration, so I said, “Oh, silly, we could figure a way for them to coexist.” Turns out we did figure out a way—we stopped dating.

Perhaps church is important to you. I hate church—I have since Sunday School. Let’s just say I was a jilted altar boy. Rejected because Father Joe found Little Jimmy’s rump more appealing than my sweet Italian meatballs. Hurtful. Anywho, I can’t date someone with supernatural beliefs. If she believes in fairies, we live in different worlds. When shit hits the fan, she’s going to close her eyes and beg her invisible friend while I look for a shovel. That’s not going to work.

We have elections coming, and some ladies are into politics. After watching the absurd silliness of Donald Trump become supported by a large number of mush brains, I’m losing faith in democracy. If she supports that obnoxious orangutan or trashes The Great Obama, she won’t make it a minute past happy hour with me, no matter how shapely her backside.

Offspring are important. I get it. I was raised with three dozen. (I shit you not. Mom was a foster parent.) That may have jilted me and shoved me toward my vasectomy, but I understand parental pride. Kids are like kittens—cute and fun until they make noise and messes. I’m not interested in child-rearing. It’s pointless to me because they rarely listen, and if they do, I’ll be gone before they’re mature enough to put my advice into action.

So, that’s one of the first things we should ask on date uno: “What’s important to you?” Here’s hoping baseball, Comedy Central, and orgasms are high on your list.

My New Year’s resolution is to crawl from my shell and ask for what I want. How’s that working out for me? Not great. Well, it works at Starbucks, but as far as barstools go, anything I say to my left and to my right seems to fall on deaf hearts.

I know my lust is creepy if the object of my desire isn’t attracted to me. So, the choice is to preface my longing with qualifying questions, or lust away and shrug off the who-farted face.

How do I determine if she’s attracted? Is it all about reading body language? I have the basics down. Arms crossed means, “Stop staring at my tits, and get back to your quesadilla.” Don’t need my reading glasses to pick up on that one. Usually, though, there’s little or no indication—no leaning in, licking lips, nor grabbing my lonely lap snake.

There are other indicators of non-interest:

Ring – This is not always a reliable indicator. Some women wear these to repel pervs. Some women are cheating ho bags. Some idiots can’t tell the difference between engagement/wedding rings and costume jewelry.

Friends – A less ego-damaging way to determine mate eligibility is by asking the friend of the target. Be aware that the friend may be offended that she was not the original target, and embark upon cockblockery.

Eaves Dropping – Stand close to the target and listen for signs of marriage or lesbianism (which has never stopped a high-ambition, over-fantasizing ass like yours truly). She might also give a subtle hint by asking her bestie, “Do I have something on my face? This creeper keeps staring at me.”

Since I’ve taken on that “go get ’er” resolution, I decided to check my ego and ask a lovely specimen out last night. It was a fine approach. I asked how she was, what was new, and if she was working all weekend. She left ole graybeard an opening by saying she had off Saturday.

“Ah, we should go have dinner.”

“Umm.”

“… or, are you married?”

“No. But I’m seeing someone.”

“He’s not invited.”

“You’re cute. Thank you for asking, though. Bye.”

Her feigning flattery wasn’t fooling me. She left me faster than a sneeze. (That’s fast. I asked Snotipedia: “Sneezes travel at about 100 miles per hour.” Zoom! No chance for brave me.)

Sucks, too, because I have no clue if she is actually seeing someone or trying to be nice. That’s my fucking job!